I’ve walked the streets of small towns, big cities, beaches, exotic continents, parks and neighborhoods, all alone. I’ve made most decisions big and small alone. I’ve trod the hardest trails alone: father’s death; mother’s deterioration; divorce; child’s illness; career dissatisfaction. I didn’t know what to say when asked by the partners and friends I’d kept at the periphery. Even I didn’t see the invisible barrier.

I wouldn’t call myself a loner. I have pockets of people: new friends to make; old friends to catch up on; and calendared gatherings. But I’m just fine alone—even in a movie theater—that most forbidding of lone adventures.

Some came closer, spun out, and hated the not-knowing and shifting priorities. Some would have been there for me had I let them. And some got through and took a bit of the strain from my tired bones.

You might not have noticed just how alone I am. After all, I lived well-loved with my parents for eighteen years. I spent thirty years as part of one couple or another. But coupling can be so isolating. At its worst, it steals the generous mantle of solitude and replaces it with missed-opportunity.

In unconnected hours face-to-face, drenched in the ice-water of failed intimacy, alone finally becomes loneliness. My strong right-side withered under worm-eaten embraces, preoccupied hearts, and habitual sex. The unearthly weight of sadness, the black weight of doubt, the sharp stones of anxiety, sent me sprained and sprawling atop the original ruin.

You might not know it’s ok to be alone. But alone stands on two strong legs. Feet may tire, shoulders ache, and breath rasp, but the slow stride uphill can continue almost indefinitely, alone.

Once again I visit that stumbling, paved, too-crowded, terrain. The air is heavy with my beautiful romance. My heart longs for him, for that connection. Quickly, I shift into reality mode. No, I’m done with criticism.

I didn’t feel this longing when my marriage split apart. Yes, I sought every bit of flesh we could muster together, to tide me over the summer months. A long marriage stocks sex like a bait shop stocks lures. Let’s just say it was the last marital commodity to lose its charm.

In those days, my body’s insistent desire came from the fear of alone-ness: am I undesired and undesirable? But longing, no–not longing. All the love and affection seemed dried up and blown away. After all those futile attempts to make the marriage work there was no more fantasy left.

Fantasy is a huge part of romance: a good, growing, expanding part—necessary. But, it can get out hand. Somewhere along the line, that last romance took a breakneck gallop to fantasy land. It was spurred on by the thousand miles of distance between us. When I longed for reassurance I could revisit any one of a dozen favorite emails. When I craved his hands across my body I could relive a favorite encounter. More and more the fantasy man replaced the real and infrequent lover. Reality could disappoint and fantasy never does; he became his own rival.

And now, months after the end, standing here in his town, my world becomes tumbled with love, lust and longing. I feel it grab hold of me again, pulling me under in breathless distraction. The fantasy life I dreamed with my lover? Gone. Tender anniversaries linger. Off balance like this, I might regret the break-up and give my heart away again. It’s such a bad habit, but so familiar.

I’m old enough to know that love can end. I know that happiness is what I give to myself. I seek ground to stop this restless earth from spilling me on my side. Stepping onto the airplane helps me shake away the dream-shards and drive longing back underground, so I can catch myself and balance on my heart.

Touched and stroked, rubbed and caressed, my skin is finally sated and it sets me free to listen to my heart. My heart feels hot and ripe, waking next to you. All night long you’ve been seeping into my psyche. I wake looking for an even deeper connection. It’s that feeling of perpetual arousal and slight nausea that burnishes me these days. In afterglow, electricity shoots across my shoulder blades, through my throat and right between my eyes. Each release expands my spirit, touching even the tiniest of polite encounters with strangers as well as more significant connections and desires for the people of my life. My fingertips might burn through matter. Slightly taken aback, I must explain “I’m alive; I’m in love.”

I enjoy this sweet, erotic, love-soaked slant on the fleeting light and last roses of fall. And I’m grateful to you for making me the lover I’ve always wanted to be: received; expansive and cherished. I’m surrounded by fountains of discovery and rediscovery; the source and subject of so much passion.

From this side, that love looks like a series of fantasies brought on by the relentless grip of my ovaries—breed! Breed! Breed! Breed! Darwin’s call drowned out all others. Enough already: no more eggs for you, biology. I’m done with that. Now—how do I do this love thing? Do I read a book? Take a course? Maybe I should consult with the experts. No, not Dr. Phil, the real experts. I wonder what science has to say about love?

The biologist holds the carapace of a serious love affair. She begins the dissection and new thoughts emerge. She slows to preserve that layer of tissue that has yet to reveal its secret. What precious juice might this secrete into the body? It seems to be a vestigial organ. It looks as though the tiny folds and membranes here might have once been programmed to exude that syrup essential to love—generosity.

Oh, the psychologist thinks she owns this turf of love. With those generosity ducts opened up, perhaps lovers could leave aside the pain and parry technique, topping each other to prove their love and leaving all those little cuts and bruises in their wake. Rather, bathed in generosity, a lover might risk discomfort and allow his abrasions to touch the sun’s healing rays without defense and domination. It might be so satisfying to leave the wound exposed for a moment and allow the beloved to be heard, thus gifted with intoxicating generosity. Then to pry open doors long since slammed shut on unruly landscapes. Maybe we can even tease melody out of those miserable sticky, choking patterns.

The ethnomusicologist loves to extrude meaning from those crazy-quilt patterns. We shouldn’t read too much from the incomplete traces left to us. We have only what she remembers, what he noticed, what they told themselves over and over and over again. Still, be sure to note the entry of the whispering chorus here, at measure 128. This chorus of friends and meddlers restates the central theme with a variation that conveys their own fear and uncertainty.

The designer… it’s hopeless. She cannot cover two in a dream by one. Pattern must be mutual, fabric? jersey-light, stretchy, even in the deepest bonds. It’s so slippery and tricky to work with. A good fit is rare.

I like this idea of Generosity… Love beyond the bursting of passion in each artery wall and sticky bit of skin, love past the years, love over fifty, love through the dark times—that lasting, longed-for, whole adult love—must be generous. It cannot demand more than it gives; it cannot measure the gift.

Say it! Say “we’ll bring our imperfect wholenesses together and be more. Love will speak in the future imperfect to the moment, compiling all those too-narrow visions from the experts into one rich-ripe heart, as my hand opens to your thigh, my lips touch your lips and my weight shifts upon the curve of your belly.”

He’s winterized those outlying spigots of fascination and re-aimed their spray towards you. Listen to his heart’s tongue. You only know your own jealous blood. You’ve been burned and betrayed before—that shows. So now you would stifle all skin—fine or fiery. But now’s time to trust him and your sleek passion.

Dismiss the fish-breath catty counsel. Love him full—take all the love he’s learned. Old kisses make a rich patina. As you harvest yours, dismiss jealousy and thank the ripened ground.

Now, computer dating is already a pretty weird thing. We’ve taken some sort of mysterious Darwinian biochemical social phenomena and made it a language-based, picture assisted lottery. Or I guess if you’re a guy, it’s more of a picture-based language-assisted bar stool. In any case, words are important. Face it– language isn’t everyone’s strong suit.

I would have some control putting up my own ad. But then what? How would I sort out responses?

Back when I was reading and responding to men’s posts, I ran into some “tests.” It’s that college-bowl brain.

“Seeking callipygous woman… “

Ok, Google Callipygous…ah… from the Greek, shapely….

Kiss my Callipygous ass!

That’s not going anywhere. I need a descriptor: “Mensch” seems like a much better descriptor than my hair, my job or my dedication to some vehicle or animal. So this was my ad:

Mensch, 52.
I am, so you should be:
- Financially solvent and responsible
- Health conscious/hwp/fit…
- Interested/Educated/Bright
- Quick to laugh—maybe even funny
- A good traveler
- Under 60

And of course:
-Single (this is Craig’s list)
-Disease free
-A non-smoker

I’m too old for:
-Critical
-Judgmental -Mr. I’m-always-right
-The super-religious

Testing isn’t really necessary. I have basic grammar to go on. And then there’s that I’ll-know-it-when-I see-it line between chatting yourself up and being a self-important asshole. For example:

“Sex and intimacy happens like breathing, we are drawn to it. I am looking for a partner whose opinions are learned and articulate. I am one of the best read, most articulate persons you will ever meet. “

Or take this:

“While in the normal conduct of my life I have hurt people (who hasn’t?), it is decidedly NOT in my nature to be mean. Acting on the realization of the Sacred in others is my default behavior. Please contact me if you think you are up to the challenge. We will never know until we try.”

Right, we will never know…. I see that most men describe themselves as intelligent and good looking. It’s like a home being light and bright.

Men tend to be quick to send a picture. This picture is just a test of the gag reflex. Could I sit across a table from this guy and not lose my lunch? But some guys really photograph well.

I park at Starbucks for the coffee meeting and catch someone in my rear view mirror as I put on lipstick. I bet that’s him, walking through the parking lot with the most unfortunate case of male pattern baldness I’ve ever seen—too bald but not bald enough. Reminder– it’s just hair.

Another guy, another Starbucks. I wonder how does that jacket hides those extra 50 cardiac-killer pounds while he launches into a litany of deadly diseases and surgeries he’s been through. His business is failing. But there’s just one little way in which he doesn’t meet my criteria.

“So what’s the 5% discrepancy?” I ask.

“Well you said Single…I’m living with a woman….But I think she’s going to dump me….”

Oooo baby! Now, some guys really want to let you know what they’re all about right away.

“I haven’t sent a picture mostly because you asked me to.”

“I hope you love dogs?”

“I could whip your little ass until it’s red and shiny. Does that shock you?”

Some messages are short if not sweet:

“To tell the truth I had forgotten about you. Who are you again?”

“Very simply, I’m a Widowed, Retired cop from Upstate New York.”

Some guys have a lot to say.

“My personality profile says I am an Introverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiver (INFP) A personality commonly referred to as “The Idealistic Philosopher.” That makes me 3% of the population.”

“One of the perks of being in a relationship is being able to call on them in times of need or crisis, such as when our cars develop a flat tire.”

I found love at AAA.